


Like a Stone on Fire

by Blake



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Banter, Canon Era, F/F, Face-Sitting, Femslash February, Love Confessions, Magic Revealed, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29775117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: “What are you doing here?” Artura asks, all sleep-rumpled and pillow-creased and so, so incredibly soft under her.And the thing is, Merlyn suddenly can’t remember the answer to that question.or,Merlyn is in Princess Artura's chambers in the middle of the night, again.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 67
Collections: Merlin Bingo





	Like a Stone on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Just in time to make it a femslash February, with minutes to go! I've been wanting to try this for a while, so it was nice to have the "genderswap" prompt to make me do it. I decided on their names after only about fifteen minutes of cursory online research, so I apologize if they don't make sense. Anyways, this is unbeta-ed and inelegant; welcome to some old-school smut!

“What are you doing here?” Artura asks, all sleep-rumpled and pillow-creased and so, so incredibly _soft_ under her.

And the thing is, Merlyn suddenly can’t remember the answer to that question. It’s not her fault that the princess’s sleep-smell—that deep, ocean-salty scent her skin gives off all the time but only lingers long enough to pool around her when she’s sleeping—is so pungent as to befuddle the minds of serving girls who are collapsed on top of her in the middle of the night for probably perfectly sound reasons. “What?” she asks, grinning wide because it usually makes her look either charming or simple enough to seem innocent.

Artura sits up on her elbows and draws back so Merlyn’s no longer stretched across her stomach, but her legs. Her blue eyes blink several times until they’re wide, glistening and pale in the moonlight coming through the window. “I _said_ ,” she says in a sleep-weakened version of the clipped voice she seems to save for occasions when she thinks Merlyn is being unreasonably difficult, “What are you doing in my bed?”

It had something to do with a thing she was looking for, a thing she had to find to save Artura’s life—a poultice, Merlyn remembers, squeezing the blanket already under her hands to surreptitiously resume her search for the magical object she suspects was placed here to poison the princess’s mind with a desire for murder. “I…” She looks around for an excuse, but all she can see is the sheen of sweat on Artura’s chest where it pushes up against her simple white nightgown, and the shine of it beading in the valley between her breasts. “…Thought you might need a cuddle.”

“A _cuddle_?” Artura contorts her otherwise fine features into a mangled, rather un-ladylike expression of utter disbelief and disparagement. Merlyn smiles, privately pleased; Artura always schools her expressions so well in front of her father and the court, always trying so desperately hard to prove herself a worthy and elegant future queen. She has no such thing to prove to Merlyn—even if that is because Merlyn is secretly quite devoted to her and their future of building a great kingdom together, and not, as Artura likely believes, because Merlyn is an idiot whose opinion of her means nothing. “I haven’t had a cuddle since Morgana was nine and decided that biting was a form of affection.”

Merlyn stops squeezing various handfuls of bedclothes in order to properly stare at Artura. “Is that somehow supposed to convince me you _don’t_ need a cuddle?” she can’t help asking, even though the whole cuddling thing is a ruse. Artura’s pitiable deficit of familial affection is terribly distracting.

Artura’s eyes widen in emphasis. “ _Yes._ ”

Merlyn hauls herself up off of Artura’s lap, hitches her dress up to fold her legs up under her, and starts feeling around this half of the bed. “Didn’t work.”

That makes Artura eye the crawling motions of Merlyn’s hands warily, as though she’s afraid they’re making their way across the covers toward her. She holds her ground, though—stubborn, brave, haughty princess that she is. “I’m burning up as it is,” she says, voice high as a shriek and quiet as a whisper.

There’s no poultice on this side. “You’re right. Let’s strip the bed then, shall we?” Merlyn asks brightly before shifting her hips off the covers to throw all three ridiculous layers of bedclothes through the curtains and onto the floor.

“ _Merlyn_!” Artura gasps. She’s curled in on herself and crossing her arms in front of her chest and stomach, absurdly scandalized, as if Merlyn doesn’t bathe her every day and hadn’t tucked her into bed in this same state of dress only hours before.

With still no poultice to be seen, Merlyn can only conclude it must be under a pillow. She should have just magicked the bed apart before waking Artura up, or made up a story about bed bugs. Now she has no choice but to torture herself with throwing herself into the princess’s bed, sucking in the breath of the girl whose wide, red mouth she dreams of tasting, feeling the skin of the woman she loves more than any other thing in this world.

So she does: flops down onto her side, facing Artura, their knees knocking and fingers brushing between them. Merlyn sticks her arm under Artura’s pillow to search around, and smiles against the sting of tasting her breath, which is so much better than any such thing has a right to be. “See, isn’t this nice?” Merlyn asks just to buy herself time, fully expecting to be quite literally kicked out at any moment.

But when she forces her eyes open, Artura isn’t looking at her the way she does when she’s angry. She’s looking at Merlyn the way she once looked at the meal Merlyn brought her when she’d been locked in the dungeons without food for three days. She’s looking at Merlyn’s mouth, licking her lips, the way other mad country girls have done when they were tucked away between haystacks, bodies pressed close, when they wanted—were ready for—were _asking_ for Merlyn to kiss them.

The illusion stops Merlyn short, and yet there’s something rough just at the edge of her reach so that her fingernails are scraping against it, and so she presses forward, shifting so close to Artura she has to close her eyes against the sight of her. The backs of their hands are squeezed together between their bodies. Merlyn forces herself to keep smiling. “I promise,” she says, as her fingers catch hold of a cloth bundle and balls it in her victorious fist, “I’m really good.” She squeezes the poultice one more time, hoping aimlessly to the gods that Artura will someday know the good in every magic, illegal thing she has ever done, and not just think of her as a fool who claims to be good at cuddling.

Then, suddenly, there’s a kiss on Merlyn’s lips so light she’s not certain it’s real.

She presses her lips up into the pressure, feels a wide, trembling mouth unmistakably against hers, and then she’s fairly certain it is real.

“Oh,” Merlyn says, excitement dawning, in the way a peasant who was just gifted a castle might whilst standing at its drawbridge.

“Merlyn,” Artura whispers, an edge between fear and desperation. Merlyn grabs her by the soft angle of her chin and holds her fast, fits their mouths together and slowly, achingly, kisses across every inch of her top lip, then her bottom one, and then licks teasingly across the space between the two, feeling the jolt in Artura’s body as she does it. The jolt precedes a great melting, Artura’s mouth opening up to her and seeking her out at once, her body rolling onto her back and drawing Merlyn in with it like quicksand.

Merlyn blindly throws the poultice across the room and uses both hands to touch Artura’s face, memorizing its shape with her thumbs while their mouths join in kiss after breath-stained kiss.

Artura’s hands are in her hair, tugging at its tie and digging into the thick, uncombed waves of it. Merlyn laughs, thinking of all the times Artura has chased her down the corridor with a brush or scolded her for wearing her hair up and thus failing to hide her unsightly ears.

“What?” Artura asks, though she sounds rather unbothered and uses her new grip in Merlyn’s hair to crush their mouths together, fierce and long enough to steal two breaths.

“I just love you, that’s all,” Merlyn murmurs before trying to get back into Artura’s mouth; she had been getting so close to teasing Artura’s tongue out between her teeth.

But Artura pushes her back for a moment, pupils black as night, looking at Merlyn as though she’s said something enormous, something _brave,_ something braver than she can imagine. To Merlyn, it’s just a fact of the universe, but her stomach twists in knots as Artura looks at her in wonder and slides her hands curiously across Merlyn’s bony chest. “Can I finally rid you of this horrible dress?”

It’s not _I love you, too,_ but it’s all the same to Merlyn.

From there, the world fragments into pieces: Artura’s needle-rough hands sweeping up every inch of her torso, kisses that stutter and start again, the tight squeeze of Artura’s thick thighs around one of hers, the gush of heat between her own legs when one of Artura’s hands dares to scratch curiously at the border of the wiry hairs across Merlyn’s groin.

There’s no holding back after that. Merlyn spreads Artura open with roving hands and buries her face in sweat wherever she can find it: the pale skin of her neck, the fleece-soft, dark golden hairs of her underarm, the valley of her sternum, and then, under her nightgown, the single crease in the sweet swell of her stomach.

And all the while, Artura keeps her thighs clutched so tight around Merlyn’s leg, riding it without even making _contact_ , hips rocking up and down in the air as she squeezes, and making Merlyn’s mouth water even as she licks up the salt from Artura’s skin.

Merlyn pops her head out from under Artura’s dress, lunges forward to kiss her lips, and asks, “Can I kiss you here?” She settles her rounded palm softly up against the slick, swollen wet between her legs, and Artura’s whole body startles, jumping at once away from and into the pressure, and Merlyn _needs_ in that moment for the answer to be _yes_ or she might just die.

Artura nods her head up and down with Merlyn’s lip still caught between her teeth, but Merlyn manages to wrench free and slide onto her stomach between Artura’s legs and _taste_ her.

“Oh, gods,” Merlyn whispers reverently after the first long swipe of her tongue, wondering how on earth she’s so lucky that the impossible princess she’s stuck in love with not only wants her to do this but also _tastes so unfathomably good_. She licks again, and again, chasing quivers and gathering pools on the tip of her tongue. Above her, Artura stares with something like fury on her face and wordless, gurgling cries in her throat. Around her, Artura’s legs kick straight and bent again, scrambling for purchase Merlyn won’t let her have, because she’s holding the cradle of her hips firmly between her hands.

“Gods,” Artura eventually manages to scrape out, when Merlyn closes her mouth around hardened, swollen flesh and sucks, until a new salty gush of stickiness slips out from under her lower lip and onto her thumb where she’s prying Artura open.

She’s fairly certain Artura reaches a climax a moment later, shrieking into her pillow, thighs trembling and squeezing around Merlyn’s ears, pulsing hotly against her tongue. But she’s not absolutely sure, and she probably wouldn’t stop even if she were. With a happy hum to herself, she keeps going.

“What are you— _oh!_ ” is the next thing Artura manages to say.

And then, “Like that, like that, _yes_ —oh, gods—”

“Ah!” is all she says when Merlyn puts a hand on the inside of either of her thighs and pushes them flat and open wide, the better for her to curl her tongue deeper inside, and—

“Oh”—a low, guttural sound when Merlyn shoves her up by the backs of her thighs and fits her mouth to the tight pucker of her arse with broad, hungry sweeps of her tongue, and then she goes quiet for a while after that, though her thighs squeeze so tightly together over Merlyn’s head she feels like she can hear their trembling like distant thunder.

When Merlyn’s mouth returns to where she’s hardest and neediest, Artura comes on it for what Merlyn thinks is the fifth or maybe even sixth time.

Merlyn eases up, lightening the pressure of her tongue, kissing a little more loosely, tracing the lovely shapes under her lips, wishing there was light enough to really look, hoping she might be allowed to another time. Apparently, however, she eases up _too_ much, because Artura groans in frustration, flips Merlyn onto her back, and straddles her shoulders to rub herself mercilessly all over Merlyn’s mouth and chin, grinding into her like she _needs_ it.

Merlyn has never been so happy to nearly suffocate in her whole life. Merlyn’s never been so _happy_ in her whole life.

When Artura finally finishes, Merlyn catches her breath around a bite full of her quaking inner thigh, holding Artura’s waist to feel her enormous, slowing breaths, and sinking into the sweet dual sensations of Artura’s fingers at her scalp and the shapeless, overwhelming sensation of wetness pooled and dripping down her thighs.

The first thing Artura does when she flops down onto the mattress is slide her hand down to drag a finger through the mess between Merlyn’s legs. Merlyn’s so far gone it barely registers; she already feels like a raw nerve, and all she can see of Artura’s face is eyes hooded from pleasure and a brow knit in concentration, and she cannot spare a thought on what to make of any of it besides a resounding _yes_.

When Artura brings her finger up to her mouth and licks curiously at it, Merlyn closes her eyes and hides them behind her own crossed elbows so that she doesn’t have to die of heart trouble before she’s even gotten to feel that mouth on her.

“I can’t believe I’ve fallen under the spell of a sorceress,” Artura says instead of setting her mouth to better, more urgent purpose.

Merlyn manages to wrench her arms off her face and open her eyes. Artura is looking down at her face, thoughtful, hungry. “What are you talking about?” Merlyn asks, fear barely finding a foothold amidst the other sensations. Had she said something, done something, without realizing, that would get her executed?

Artura looks entirely too serious and determined for someone who’s just come seven times. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about the magic.”

Merlyn is trying to follow her logic, but it’s hard when her hand is trailing back down to toy with the hairs at the very top of her thigh. “I haven’t used any magic,” she says, because, well, she’s _sure_ she hasn’t, not since boiling Artura’s bath water hours before.

Artura’s hand goes devastatingly flat. Her brow furrows even deeper in thought. “But how—Then how did you make me—like that, for so—so _long_ and so—so many _times_?”

Just when Merlyn would love to indulge in hearing about how _good_ she is at taking care of her princess who is usually adamant to say otherwise, she finally hears, on a delay, what Artura said _before_ she described how good and long and many times Merlyn made her come. The important thing: _I won’t tell anyone about the magic._

“Why is your timing always so terribly inconvenient?” she whispers, hitching close to taste Artura’s breath again, wishing she didn’t have to waste time explaining things _now_.

“When is my timing ever inconvenient?” Artura asks, already sounding further away, on the defense, proving Merlyn’s point.

“The time just last week when you snuck money out of the treasury to give back to the overtaxed, and I had to use my magic to stun the guards so they wouldn’t catch you and—”

“I thought you just said you _didn’t_ use magic.”

Merlyn laughs and pushes a golden whisp of hair behind Artura’s ear, since she hardly flinches at all. “I use my magic to keep you from getting thrown in the dungeons again, or caught by bandits, or poisoned by stupid poisonous poultices. And to boil your bathwater. I don’t need magic to make you feel good,” she says, wrinkling her nose as she realizes she may be undermining the point she’s trying to make about using her magic to serve Artura. Maybe she _should_ have used magic to make her feel good.

Slowly, Artura speaks. “So I’m _not_ under a spell.”

“No.” Merlyn forces her smile into a modest flat line. “I guess you’re just in love with me.” She kisses Artura, hoping.

“But you _are_ a sorceress.”

Merlyn breathes up into the pressure of Artura’s hand on her ribcage, lets her eyes shine open and honest with the well of feeling inside her, and breathes, “I’m _your_ sorceress.”

The words seem to push Artura over some kind of edge; the next moment, she’s diving in close, pressing heavy and sticky all over Merlyn’s body as they kiss, possessive and searching and, worst-best of all, _knowing_. Then her mouth ghosts its way down the centerline of Merlyn’s body, following the trail of her hands, until finally, _finally_ , she pulls Merlyn open with two thumbs and—

“I don’t need magic to make you feel good either,” Artura says. Merlyn could cry from frustration, but she’s too delighted by the smirk in that dear voice, too overwhelmed by all the unforeseen potential of Artura’s usually insufferable competitive streak, and altogether entirely too distracted to brace herself for the sure, broad sweep of Artura’s tongue.

A pitifully short time later, Merlyn has to pry Artura off of her with two fists in her very tangled hair. Artura wipes the back of her hand across her mouth as she comes up to lie on the pillow beside Merlyn. Her initial uncertainty about the whole affair seems to have utterly disappeared. “I knew you’ve wanted that since the moment we first met, when you stepped on the train of my dress and tripped me,” she boasts.

Gingerly, Merlyn folds over onto her side to guard any oversensitive parts and to face Artura, studying the playful flutter of her eyelashes in the dark. She looks happy. Merlyn smiles. “I didn’t step on your dress,” she whispers. Her magic, all it entails, their future together, the secrets they’ll share; it all feels too big to give voice to in this moment.

Surprise skitters across Artura’s face, but only for a moment. “You tripped me with magic,” she accuses, the crooked tooth in her smile shining in the last of the moonlight.

“ _You_ put me in the _stocks_ just to watch overripe fruit run down my face,” Merlyn counters, pulling Artura in close, twining their calves together, breathing in her breath and hoping she might get to until the end of time.

As it turns out, she does.


End file.
